


Whatever way you have to love

by Interpolations



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Trains, this was supposed to just be wintery ambiance and then it developed a plot, train accidents to encourage affection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:01:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28375872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Interpolations/pseuds/Interpolations
Summary: It’s December 26th, 1904, and David Jacobs is in a train car he isn’t supposed to be in with the boy he never meant to fall in love with.
Relationships: David Jacobs/Jack Kelly
Comments: 18
Kudos: 33





	Whatever way you have to love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PenzyRome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenzyRome/gifts).



> This is a holiday gift for the inimitable Penzy, who asked for an atmospheric wintery period piece. Instead I give her this ridiculous train trip. I’m sorry Penzy. I tried to write something heartening and lovely and I ended up with pining, a quarter-life crisis, five years of post-canon backstory, and more facts about trains than I care to know.
> 
> (Though, admittedly, the trains are not entirely historically accurate because I went full Pullman - almost Orient Express - when they might have still been using Wagner)
> 
> In any case, we, and these two young men, are in for quite the ride.

The steam hung low over the platform. It turned the piercingly bright lamps into soft auras, white turning to gold turning to the faintest rose and finally disappearing into hazy grey, as though each bulb was a small star placed just out of reach. No one else seemed to be appreciating this beauty. That wasn’t a slight against them. It probably said more about David that witnessing the natural effect of diffusion was the closest thing he’d felt to joy in months. 

He took out his watch and checked the time. Quarter after six. He was on schedule.

LaSalle Street Station was a striking construction of steel and granite and red paving bricks, dotted with terra cotta, with a finished interior of marble and mahogany. The platform, while stripped of most of these niceties, was still impressive with its steel trusses and windowed ceiling.

Far above, the skylights revealed the pitch-black night. A few patches of snow disrupted the view. Last week’s blizzard had faded into memory but this afternoon’s wind had decided a reprise was in order. Snowbanks were destroyed, moved two blocks to the right, and reformed. Coat collars were turned up and hats were held tightly. The air glittered with the glassy particles in a way that could only be appreciated if you were looking out a window.

The platform shielded its patrons from the bluster but it could not entirely ward off the cold. Everyone was bundled up in their winter best. A few had huddled around the lamppost, perhaps in the hopes that the warm light could also imbue a sense of warmth. A few risked soot stains and stood close to the engine. Most just walked purposefully towards the waiting train.

He had to admit it was pretty grand.

He had been in the station before. Only half a year ago, in fact. He might have even stood in this exact spot exactly as he did now: bag slung across his body, case in hand, alone. And yet it was entirely unfamiliar.

He was jarred out of his thoughts as something hit his leg.

He looked down. A very small girl in a heavy coat looked up at him with wide green eyes. Her mouth was slightly parted, the shock of the collision lingering. David smiled down at her. Her arms tightened around her stuffed bear. She smiled back, tentative, her cheeks flushing as red as her wind-bitten snub nose.

“Eliza!” A frenzied looking woman grabbed her shoulder. “You can’t just run off– I am so sorry, sir–”

“Please, it’s no trouble,” David said immediately. He sent the girl’s mother the same kind smile that had soothed away the child’s shock.

It seemed to help soften her worry as well. “Thank you, sir. Eliza, what do you say?”

“Thank you,” she mumbled.

“You’re welcome,” David said in return.

The woman gave him one last apologetic look before she guided her daughter to where a bored-looking man was waiting. Once the two had rejoined him, he knelt down to the girl. His expression was stern but not unkind. He stood and they set off into the throng of frantic passengers. David watched as they disappeared into the crowd, Eliza’s mother keeping a determined grip on her young daughter’s hand, Eliza keeping a determined hold of her toy.

A familiar ache hit David’ chest. He closed his eyes and let the feeling wash over him. He took a deep breath and carried on into the fray.

He weaved his way across the platform. Around him, people were hugging—reunited, separating. Bags were dropped and picked up and passed from hand to hand. Porters darted every which way, loading their carts to overflowing and then pushing them forwards, yelling at people to get out of the way. Every so often one would catch David’ eye, look down to see his single trunk, visibly slump with relief, and then turn around to assist whatever passenger had started pestering them.

“NOW BOARDING! LAKE SHORE LIMITED! CHICAGO TO NEW YORK CITY! ALL ABOARD!”

David fished his ticket out of his pocket and handed it over to the guard. He took it, read it, looked up at David, read it again, then looked David up and down. Head to toe. Twice.

David nervously fiddled with the strap of his bag.

“Mr. Jacobs! There you are!”

David looked up, startled.

An elderly and wiry-built guard sauntered forward. “Hey, Daniels, there’s a problem at the gate. Some poor fella crumpled his ticket. Mind going and convincing Jackson that that’s not a federal offence?”

The man grumbled some choice expletives and hurried off.

“Mr. Reese?” David asked.

Mr. Reese grinned and clapped David’s shoulder, a far reach for the short man. “Don’t tell me it’s been so long you’ve forgotten what I looked like!”

David smiled and shook his head. “Never.”

His father’s friend pressed his hand against his uniform patch. “Always such a flatterer. Or maybe that’s an insult. Oh well. Come on now.” He grabbed the cuff of David’s jacket—like he used to when David was two feet shorter than him instead of half a foot taller—and led him along the side of the train, “Jackson might be a piece of work but it won’t take long for Daniels to sort him out.”

David stumbled after him. “But my ticket’s for–”

“I got you that ticket; I know what it says.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

They were close to the front of the train when Mr. Reese finally pulled to a stop, jumped onto the third car from the engine, and gestured for David to follow.

David looked up at the wrought iron steps “What?”

Mr. Reese grabbed his collar and pulled. “Quick!”

“Alright, alright!”

David jumped up and followed him into the car.

The sounds of the platform faded into the distance as they walked through the cabin. The wooden doors to their left were polished to shining. Sconces with electric bulbs shone on their right. David ducked to avoid bumping into one.

“One of the passengers got here a few hours early,” Mr. Reese explained, voice hushed. “Apparently he’d managed to get a ticket on that new line—20th Century something.”

“20th Century Limited,” David corrected.

He remembered the excitement when the story broke a few years ago—New York to Chicago in only twenty hours. Sarah reminded him of this fact every time she felt he was avoiding her questions, usually accompanied by the estimated cost of a round-trip, in the demure and pleasant tone she used to threaten him.

He also remembered his fruitless journey to the ticket office only a few days earlier.

“I thought they were sold out?”

“Not if you’re rich as this guy was. Anyways, so he came ‘round to try and get his ticket refunded— _in full_. That was not a fun conversation, but it did let me know…” He stopped in front of one of the doors and turned around. His smile was blinding. “That there was room in first class.”

David’s breath caught. “You can’t be serious.”

Mr. Reese wiggled his bushy eyebrows.

“I–” David checked behind him, then leaned in close. “I can’t be here!”

“You can!” Mr. Reese said, tone gleeful even in a whisper, “The only one that knows about the guy was me and this morning’s ticket seller. That poor girl finished her day at five and I’m not telling a soul.”

David shook his head. “They’ll know.”

“They won’t,” Mr. Reese insisted. “You saw Daniels when you tried to board! You’ve had to blend in with folks far richer than the people in this carriage since you were a kid.” He pulled a small key with a red ribbon out of his pocket and held it out. “So put that fancy schooling to work and make sure you get a good night’s sleep.”

David nodded. He peeled off his glove and took the key.

Even in the quiet hall, he could barely hear himself ask: “Are you–?”

Mr. Reese’s voice was louder. Steadier. “Yes.”

David checked behind him again, then looked past Mr. Reese. With the coast clear, he chanced a quick hug. It was immediately returned, bony arms latching around his waist, laughter muffled against his chest.

They sprang apart at the sound of a clatter.

“Oh, bother!” a woman’s voice said from the end of the hall. She appeared in the doorway a second later, struggling to keep hold of her overstuffed carpet bag. “Excuse me! Could you please–”

“I will be with you in a moment, Ma’am,” Mr. Reese called back. He winked at David and asked: “Will that be all, sir?”

David straightened, and, in a voice so pompous he hated himself for it, answered: “Yes, yes, go on.”

Mr. Reese’s lip twitched. He winked again and went to help the struggling woman.

With shaking hands, David unlocked and entered his borrowed accommodations.

The compartment was furnished with warm colours—rich brown wood paneling, burgundy blankets and curtains, cream sheets. There were two beds, bunk style, against the left wall. A single end table was occupied by a single lamp, which had a bell-shaped red fringed shade.

He pulled the door shut, lifted his case up into the overhead rack, and sat gingerly on the lower bunk.

The cabin was nicer than every tenement, dormitory, and lodging house David had lived in. It was infinitely nicer than the sleeper car he’d taken to Chicago. He had managed to get a ticket on the 20th Century Limited that time, but he’d been so keenly aware of each passing hour that he never thought to be grateful it was only a twenty-hour trip. The trip had felt endless. He hadn’t slept at all. Whether that was the fault of the snores and tears and screaming children or the fear and excitement coursing through his veins was anyone's guess.

Depending on whether his dread or exhaustion won out, this trip might be no better.

He took off his hat and set it beside him. He pulled the strap of his bag off of his shoulder and over his head, setting it to lean against the pillow. He unlatched the front pocket and took out the worn envelope. He opened it and took out the photograph. His family smiled up at him. He slipped the picture back in the envelope and took out the sheet of paper.

His sister’s careful cursive—the kind she used when their mother dictated her pen strokes—covered the page.

_David,_

_Though we have said so already—probably more than we should have, and likely more than you've wanted to hear—congratulations. You have worked so hard and for so long. We are proud of the man you have become._

_These congratulations are sent with a heavy heart. We will miss you terribly. Do not let this worry you. We have been burdened with sentimentality long enough to know how to manage it. We only ask that you write often and take care of yourself._

_With all our love,_

_Your family_

The next section was done in Sarah’s choppier natural hand:

_P.S._

_I had not known before  
Forever was so long a word  
The slow stroke of the clock of time  
I had not heard_

_‘Tis hard to learn so late;  
It seems no sad heart really learns,  
But hopes and trusts and doubts and fears,  
And bleeds and burns_

_The night is not all dark,  
Nor is the day it seems,  
But each may bring me this relief—  
My dreams and dreams._

_I had not known before  
That Never was so sad a word,  
So wrap me in forgetfulness—  
I have not heard._

_If you don’t write I will come to Chicago and kill you myself._

The next line was done in Les’s loose script:

_P.P.S. We expect a detailed description of what the train ride was like. With illustrations._

David swallowed past the lump in his throat, folded it up, and tucked it back into his bag.

It wasn’t the only letter he had gotten from his family. At least a quarter of his bag was filled with letters he’d received and saved—from his family, from just his parents, from Sarah, from Les, from his friends. He reread many of them. There were only two he read with such frequency that the folds were soft and close to tearing.

He tried not to think about the letter in his breast pocket.

He tried not to think about the letter he’d mailed on his way to the station.

A whistle came from the platform. It was answered by the train’s louder whistle. He checked his watch. Six thirty. It was time.

He lifted the curtain away from the window. The platform was still crowded, guards and porters hurrying about, redirecting confused passengers, lugging luggage. A man rushed towards the train, right outside David’s window. A guard stepped forward, a hand against the man’s chest. The train lurched forward and the two were out of the frame. All the better: that was bound to be an explosive argument.

The man had likely been a first-class passenger; even if he hadn’t tried to board the first-class carriage, it was obvious by his shining top hat and well-fitted clothes. Perhaps he had even been David’s bunk mate— _travel companion,_ that might be the better term. David couldn’t help but feel sorry for the man’s loss; he’d felt sick just looking at the first-class prices as he purchased his ticket.

But this way his performance might not have to last twenty-four hours.

And there was the possibility of privacy. After years of dormitories and boarding houses, having a room where he didn’t have to worry about another person’s snoring or people bursting in unannounced was almost novel.

The door slammed open.

David startled so badly he slammed his head against the top bunk.

“Shit! Sorry!” the new arrival said.

David waved him off with the hand that wasn’t rubbing what was sure to be a bruise. “It’s alright.”

“I– Fuck, I thought it’d be empty. Didn’t even think to knock–”

The new arrival was a young man wearing what appeared to be a shabby brown and black coat, a black page-boy cap, and a red and black scarf. It was hard to tell since the man was covered head to toe in grime and soot.

He was also still apologizing.

“–got all caught up in traffic—you know how State and Madison gets—so I was right by the engine when they started goin’ and next thing I know they’re shovelin’ in that first load of coal and _whoomph:_ soot. So I figured I oughta clean myself up and all ‘fore I go out. But I really thought it’d be empty ‘cause, well... don’t matter, but I– _shit_ that burns–” he peeled off one glove and went to rub his eye.

David wasn’t quite sure why he did what he did next. Maybe it was his nature—Les frequently complained how he “didn’t need two Mamas” and the newsies always teased him about his near-constant worrying. Maybe it was madness borne from the ache of once again hearing a heavy ‘Hattan accent.

In any case, David stood and batted the other man’s arm down.

“No, that won’t– here.” He fished his handkerchief out of his pocket and held it out.

The responding smile was startling white and horribly familiar. “Thanks.”

He grabbed the handkerchief before it dropped from David’s numb fingers.

He scrubbed it across his face, then folded it over and scrubbed at each eye, thick black lashes fluttering. He wiped it along the strong line of his jaw, which seemed to have become impossibly sharper. He scrubbed the side of his nose, across the bridge and down to where Katherine used to flick him when he teased her. He peeled off his other glove and rubbed the back of his hand against his lips. How many times had David looked down at them before jerking away before he was caught? He took off his hat and shook the soot from his hair. The dark curls shone in the lamplight the way they used to shine under the streetlights as he and David made their way through the New York City avenues.

Each gesture revealed the boy that David spent almost a year studying and many more years remembering.

He had grown up. David knew he must have. On more than one occasion he’d even tried to imagine the effect of age on his already handsome face.

David’s mind and memory had not done him justice.

“Jack.”

Jack looked up in shock. His brown eyes locked on David’s. David’s heart pounded as they widened in recognition. “…Davey?”

A shrill whistle of steam. The train jolted forwards.

David stumbled. Jack grabbed his shoulders and hauled him back to his feet. His hands trailed down David's arms as he re-adjusted their balance, fingers feather-light. They settled to a stop halfway down and tightened, thumbs pressing into the inside of David’s elbow in an effort to steady him. It did nothing of the sort.

David was wearing an undershirt, a button-down, a waistcoat, a jacket, and a heavy wool coat. In that moment it felt like nothing. It was completely useless against the onslaught of Jack’s tactility.

Jack looked up at him with a slanted smile. “Been a while.”

David nodded mutely.

_Four years._

The whistle sounded again, high and shrill, as the train picked up speed and carried them out of the station.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Sarah quotes is "Forever" by Paul Laurence Dunbar, published in _Lyrics of Sunshine and Shadow_ (The Century Co., 1901).

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think. You can also find me as benafee on tumblr. As always, I cannot promise or commit to an update schedule but I can promise and commit to doing my best.


End file.
